By Ethel Mortenson Davis
At dusk I found myself hurrying through the glacial forest.
The air was warm and humid, but the clay dust cool on my feet.
I was climbing the high trail to the footbridge
that crossed the black granite waters.
The daylight was fading.
The moss-covered boulders looked like giants strewn
by some ancient glacier eons ago.
As the cold air rose around my legs,
multi-colored shells of snails crisscrossed the large tree trunks.
Water trickled down everywhere — through the moss carpet
thick with the red mushroom.
I had come here before, hoping to resolve a riddle,
but now I had a disease within my body and needed help.
Finally I reached the bridge, black and strong,
made with spaces between the floor planks wide enough
to see the great height at which I was.
The black river below looked like a black granite ribbon
glistening in the dim light.
Across the bridge I could see a clearing through the trees.
In the clearing was a large crowd of people.
Their faces were as warm as their hands.
Nightingale whispered:
These are people that have helped you
in some way throughout your life.
Then it was night.
As I went back across the bridge
the moon was beginning to shine on the water,
but within me
I felt as if the sun was beginning to rise.
fourwindowspress 